“I’m a little disappointed you haven’t found me yet,” the recording segues into awkwardly. Matt knows there’s at least four days between the segments, maybe longer. He spent most of them in the mask, frantically hunting for the Bullseye Killer. Bruised knuckles and bad dreams and little else to show for it. The police hadn’t even tried to get in his way. “After all the effort I put into setting this up for you. Ah well. You’re a little slow, but you’ll get there. In the meantime, the things I’ve *learned* about your gifts. Franklin’s been invaluable, such a dear. I’m aware that his reactions are a little rawer, that he’s not had the time to adjust like you have, but oh Matthew…” Lester’s voice turns reverent. “The things you can do. What you must experience, every day. It’s such a privilege, to gain this insight into you. How strong you must be, to go about every day as though you aren’t, you aren’t a god amongst men when even without your sight you can see everything.”
There’s a noise in the background that Matt can’t make out . Low pitched, continuous. It sets Matt’s teeth on edge, makes his ears feel itchy.
“Franklin’s just the gift that keeps on giving, you know,” Lester carries on. “Every day, I learn more. I’ve got him wearing wool today, and he just won’t settle, so I’ve no idea how you manage. Do you wear a lot of silk? You must do, it looks so terribly uncomfortable to wear normal clothes. And ooh… I’ve finally figured out how sensitive your hearing is. I’ve been practising you see. Playing one continuous sound at different volumes, poor Franklin hasn’t had a wink of sleep for.. well, days now… but his hearing’s just so delicate at the moment, the poor lamb. And he cries so prettily. Wait, I’ll give you a listen, hang on.”
The noise suddenly gets louder, a one-tone klaxon blaring out at an agonising volume.
In the background, Foggy makes an animal wail through a shredded throat, and Matt has to pause the tape to sob soundlessly into his own hands.
--
The next few recordings takes him nearly a week to work through, stopping and starting. He can’t bear to listen to it for long. Even then, he has other things he needs to be focusing on right now. Lester is not his priority any more.
Lester sometimes just chats away about his plans for the future. How he and Matt will destroy each other, how that moment is worth everything to him, how he dreams about it. Sometimes he narrates little sensory experiments he’s trying. Once, he narrates making a curry of all things, bringing a small camping stove and pot into the brig where he’s holding his prisoner. Matt can imagine how much Foggy’s eyes sting, how the spices choke the back of his throat, coat his tongue and nose and make him gag. How from the sound of it, Foggy’s so out of it he barely knows what’s being done to him, staring out and seeing nothing, thrashing and confused and wondering why the world hurts so much in the dark.
Matt slams his fist so hard into the table that he’s still picking splinters out when Karen comes over later.
--
“How is he?” she asks, settling her coat on the rack and shuffling out of her heels and into her slippers. She pauses when she catches Matt sitting on the sofa, beer already in hand despite the early hour.
“How do you think?” Matt says sharply, and she doesn’t rise to his anger. Instead, she grabs her own bottle from the fridge and joins him.
“We were talking,” Matt says after they’ve sat in silence for a while. “I was trying to tell him that his blindness won’t be the disability he thinks it is. That I can teach him, help him, show him how to use what that man did and turn it into something better.” Matt takes another gulp. “I sounded just like Stick.”
“Stick wanted you as a weapon,” Karen says. “You just want to help your friend. It’s not the same, Matt.”
“The worst thing is that Stick honestly helped me,” Matt swings his bottle from his fingers in lazy circles. It’s nearly empty. “What he did, it wasn’t right, and I know that, but I only got this far because of him. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t found me. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to help without repeating what Stick taught me. And I don’t want to push – I don’t want to hurt him, not after everything else…”
“You won’t,” Karen says quickly, and she sets her beer down by her feet and puts her hand up against Matt’s, tightening her grip reassuringly when Matt lets her slot their palms together. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but…. Stick wanted you to fight. You just want Foggy to do more than just survive. You’ve got to remember that difference. That’s how you’ll help.”
--
Sometimes the tape is left to record after Lester has left the room. A little added extra, that bastard calls them. If anything, they’re worse than listening to him catalogue whatever new thing he tried out that day.
It’s mostly just silence, the sound of waves arching up against the sides of the hull, the stripped out lower cabin of the boat tied up on the docks. His friend twitching at footsteps overhead, tensing up when they sound like Lester’s coming back. Gasping to try and reign in his panic. Sometimes he hears him drag himself across the floor, stumble up onto unsteady feet, try the lock. Once, that monster leaves it unlocked, and it’s heartbreaking to hear Foggy’s hopeful staggering steps cut short when he realises that Lester’s waiting right outside the brig to grab him by the arms with a “You’ll have to try harder than that, Franklin!” , spinning him round childishly so Foggy is dizzy and disorientated, and pushing him right back into the room, faint and light-headed and unaware of where he is any more.
Sometimes, when the river’s up high or there’s been a heavy rainfall or even if Lester’s been particularly enthusiastic that day, Foggy just lies there. Swallowed up by the world, crushed by the noise. Crying quietly, and not even hearing himself over the sound of everything else.
Matt remembers how it was, those first weeks. How there was just too much of the world.
He remembers what it was like to be in the dark and afraid.
Matt never wanted that for anyone. But not Foggy. Never Foggy.
--
It is during one of these extras that Matt finally hears himself.
A clattering bang and the squeak of hinges as he hurriedly unlocks the door, his knuckles numb from punching, something dark in him telling him he should have kept on punching, and Matt winces as he hears Foggy groan on the tape at the intrusion, curl up on himself.
On the other side, the other Matt is hearing a lone heartbeat begin to panic.
“Foggy?!” he is calling too loudly. ”Foggy, I’m here, oh thank Christ, Foggy.” A rustling as he puts his hands on him, fabrics rubbing against fabrics as he checks for injuries, bruising, skirting up with trembling fingers to rub around the skin of Foggy’s eyes. The police reports had said the others were blinded. Matt had had nightmares about hideous sockets and bloody rents marring Foggy’s face. There’s not a scratch, yet this other Matt, this ignorant Matt, he doesn’t understand yet how much damage has been done. “It’s ok buddy, let’s take you home.”
“…too loud,” Foggy croaks finally. Matt remembers hands grasping out to grab him, trying to find somewhere to hold on to. “Matty, please, it’s too loud.”
“What is?” the other Matt asks, and he still doesn’t get it, still hasn’t realised. “What’s too loud?”
“Everything,” Foggy chokes, and Matt turns the tape off. He remembers how the rest of it goes anyway.
--
“You should burn those tapes,” Karen had said to him. “They aren’t what’s important any more. Foggy is, and you’ve got to be there for him, Matt. You’ve got to be the one who helps him through this.”
Matt’s been thinking a lot about his past these days. Thoughts he doesn’t often come back to for obvious reasons. About how the bumps on his new books were meaningless gibberish at first, how his fingertips hurt after a long frustrating day trying to struggle his way through the simplest of paragraphs. About his earliest unsteady steps, clutching his dad’s arm tightly, more shuffling than walking, half expecting to meet a wall every time.
About how an old man told him he was special and then tried to turn him into a solider.
Matt doesn’t want to make the same mistakes.
He crushes the tapes underfoot and throws the whole lot into the trash.
After that’s done, he lets himself into his room with slow, careful steps.
“It’s me,” he telegraphs his entrance.
“Of course it is,” a tired voice replies. “You just can’t stay away.”
Matt barely sits down before a hand flutters out to nudge against his arm, steadying itself there with a loose hold.
“You have that leftover pizza for breakfast?”
“I just can’t get away with anything now, can I?” He tries for lightness and it works, Foggy making an amused hum.
“Not now, buddy. I’m on to you.”
“Alright then, hotshot. Let’s see how much better you are today.” Matt removes his hand from Foggy’s grip and holds it up at the level of his head, palm raised as though he’s being sworn in. “Remember what I said about body heat and air vibrations, yeah? Now, try and give me a high five.”
Foggy still jerks at sirens, jumping when someone else in the building makes an unexpected noise, and he’ll barely leave the house. He’s still not used to using his cane, gets easily annoyed at how slowly he reads braille, and he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and won’t remember for a moment why it’s so dark.
He finds Matt’s hand three times out of five this time. He’ll get better in time.
2nd Fill: out of kilter 2/2
There’s a noise in the background that Matt can’t make out . Low pitched, continuous. It sets Matt’s teeth on edge, makes his ears feel itchy.
“Franklin’s just the gift that keeps on giving, you know,” Lester carries on. “Every day, I learn more. I’ve got him wearing wool today, and he just won’t settle, so I’ve no idea how you manage. Do you wear a lot of silk? You must do, it looks so terribly uncomfortable to wear normal clothes. And ooh… I’ve finally figured out how sensitive your hearing is. I’ve been practising you see. Playing one continuous sound at different volumes, poor Franklin hasn’t had a wink of sleep for.. well, days now… but his hearing’s just so delicate at the moment, the poor lamb. And he cries so prettily. Wait, I’ll give you a listen, hang on.”
The noise suddenly gets louder, a one-tone klaxon blaring out at an agonising volume.
In the background, Foggy makes an animal wail through a shredded throat, and Matt has to pause the tape to sob soundlessly into his own hands.
--
The next few recordings takes him nearly a week to work through, stopping and starting. He can’t bear to listen to it for long. Even then, he has other things he needs to be focusing on right now. Lester is not his priority any more.
Lester sometimes just chats away about his plans for the future. How he and Matt will destroy each other, how that moment is worth everything to him, how he dreams about it. Sometimes he narrates little sensory experiments he’s trying. Once, he narrates making a curry of all things, bringing a small camping stove and pot into the brig where he’s holding his prisoner. Matt can imagine how much Foggy’s eyes sting, how the spices choke the back of his throat, coat his tongue and nose and make him gag. How from the sound of it, Foggy’s so out of it he barely knows what’s being done to him, staring out and seeing nothing, thrashing and confused and wondering why the world hurts so much in the dark.
Matt slams his fist so hard into the table that he’s still picking splinters out when Karen comes over later.
--
“How is he?” she asks, settling her coat on the rack and shuffling out of her heels and into her slippers. She pauses when she catches Matt sitting on the sofa, beer already in hand despite the early hour.
“How do you think?” Matt says sharply, and she doesn’t rise to his anger. Instead, she grabs her own bottle from the fridge and joins him.
“We were talking,” Matt says after they’ve sat in silence for a while. “I was trying to tell him that his blindness won’t be the disability he thinks it is. That I can teach him, help him, show him how to use what that man did and turn it into something better.” Matt takes another gulp. “I sounded just like Stick.”
“Stick wanted you as a weapon,” Karen says. “You just want to help your friend. It’s not the same, Matt.”
“The worst thing is that Stick honestly helped me,” Matt swings his bottle from his fingers in lazy circles. It’s nearly empty. “What he did, it wasn’t right, and I know that, but I only got this far because of him. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t found me. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to help without repeating what Stick taught me. And I don’t want to push – I don’t want to hurt him, not after everything else…”
“You won’t,” Karen says quickly, and she sets her beer down by her feet and puts her hand up against Matt’s, tightening her grip reassuringly when Matt lets her slot their palms together. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but…. Stick wanted you to fight. You just want Foggy to do more than just survive. You’ve got to remember that difference. That’s how you’ll help.”
--
Sometimes the tape is left to record after Lester has left the room. A little added extra, that bastard calls them. If anything, they’re worse than listening to him catalogue whatever new thing he tried out that day.
It’s mostly just silence, the sound of waves arching up against the sides of the hull, the stripped out lower cabin of the boat tied up on the docks. His friend twitching at footsteps overhead, tensing up when they sound like Lester’s coming back. Gasping to try and reign in his panic. Sometimes he hears him drag himself across the floor, stumble up onto unsteady feet, try the lock. Once, that monster leaves it unlocked, and it’s heartbreaking to hear Foggy’s hopeful staggering steps cut short when he realises that Lester’s waiting right outside the brig to grab him by the arms with a “You’ll have to try harder than that, Franklin!” , spinning him round childishly so Foggy is dizzy and disorientated, and pushing him right back into the room, faint and light-headed and unaware of where he is any more.
Sometimes, when the river’s up high or there’s been a heavy rainfall or even if Lester’s been particularly enthusiastic that day, Foggy just lies there. Swallowed up by the world, crushed by the noise. Crying quietly, and not even hearing himself over the sound of everything else.
Matt remembers how it was, those first weeks. How there was just too much of the world.
He remembers what it was like to be in the dark and afraid.
Matt never wanted that for anyone. But not Foggy. Never Foggy.
--
It is during one of these extras that Matt finally hears himself.
A clattering bang and the squeak of hinges as he hurriedly unlocks the door, his knuckles numb from punching, something dark in him telling him he should have kept on punching, and Matt winces as he hears Foggy groan on the tape at the intrusion, curl up on himself.
On the other side, the other Matt is hearing a lone heartbeat begin to panic.
“Foggy?!” he is calling too loudly. ”Foggy, I’m here, oh thank Christ, Foggy.” A rustling as he puts his hands on him, fabrics rubbing against fabrics as he checks for injuries, bruising, skirting up with trembling fingers to rub around the skin of Foggy’s eyes. The police reports had said the others were blinded. Matt had had nightmares about hideous sockets and bloody rents marring Foggy’s face. There’s not a scratch, yet this other Matt, this ignorant Matt, he doesn’t understand yet how much damage has been done. “It’s ok buddy, let’s take you home.”
“…too loud,” Foggy croaks finally. Matt remembers hands grasping out to grab him, trying to find somewhere to hold on to. “Matty, please, it’s too loud.”
“What is?” the other Matt asks, and he still doesn’t get it, still hasn’t realised. “What’s too loud?”
“Everything,” Foggy chokes, and Matt turns the tape off. He remembers how the rest of it goes anyway.
--
“You should burn those tapes,” Karen had said to him. “They aren’t what’s important any more. Foggy is, and you’ve got to be there for him, Matt. You’ve got to be the one who helps him through this.”
Matt’s been thinking a lot about his past these days. Thoughts he doesn’t often come back to for obvious reasons. About how the bumps on his new books were meaningless gibberish at first, how his fingertips hurt after a long frustrating day trying to struggle his way through the simplest of paragraphs. About his earliest unsteady steps, clutching his dad’s arm tightly, more shuffling than walking, half expecting to meet a wall every time.
About how an old man told him he was special and then tried to turn him into a solider.
Matt doesn’t want to make the same mistakes.
He crushes the tapes underfoot and throws the whole lot into the trash.
After that’s done, he lets himself into his room with slow, careful steps.
“It’s me,” he telegraphs his entrance.
“Of course it is,” a tired voice replies. “You just can’t stay away.”
Matt barely sits down before a hand flutters out to nudge against his arm, steadying itself there with a loose hold.
“You have that leftover pizza for breakfast?”
“I just can’t get away with anything now, can I?” He tries for lightness and it works, Foggy making an amused hum.
“Not now, buddy. I’m on to you.”
“Alright then, hotshot. Let’s see how much better you are today.” Matt removes his hand from Foggy’s grip and holds it up at the level of his head, palm raised as though he’s being sworn in. “Remember what I said about body heat and air vibrations, yeah? Now, try and give me a high five.”
Foggy still jerks at sirens, jumping when someone else in the building makes an unexpected noise, and he’ll barely leave the house. He’s still not used to using his cane, gets easily annoyed at how slowly he reads braille, and he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and won’t remember for a moment why it’s so dark.
He finds Matt’s hand three times out of five this time. He’ll get better in time.
Matt will show him how.